


An Unexpected Visitor

by notjustmom



Series: Sherlock Christmas Ficlets 2017 [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bits of angst, Christmas Fluff, M/M, another return
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2019-02-11 00:14:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12923193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom
Summary: prompt 5: mistletoe/decorating





	An Unexpected Visitor

John stared up at the window as his cab pulled up. He shook his head and sighed. One of his friends must have gotten into the Christmas spirit this year, as he knew he was exhausted, pulling three double shifts this week, but not so brain-dead that he wouldn't have remembered putting them up himself. He snorted as he recalled their first and only Christmas together. Sher - he had called it 'commercialism at its finest,'(sarcasm...god he missed even the biting commentary) 'the silly season,' and these past couple of years, John understood the sentiments all too well... sentiment. 

The cabbie cleared his throat and mumbled, 'mate, yer home - hey, looks like you did up the lights this year. I prefer the white fairy lights, too - my kids and the wife - they like those rainbow ones, though - so, you know who wins -" John nodded and offered him a grin and a few notes and wished him a happy Christmas before finally exiting the cab and correcting the knocker, it had been straight last night when he left. He must be more done-in than he thought, if he couldn't remember - he shook his head as if clearing the cobwebs would help, then climbed the seventeen steps to thei - his flat. It had been his the last - he knew it to the hour, hell, to the minute since - but he couldn't say it out loud - if he didn't say it, it wasn't real... he laughed to himself bitterly as he looked up to see mistletoe hanging above his head. Now that was just too much - even as a practical joke - all he wanted was a drink, or two or three, and to sit in his chair and close his eyes - just a couple hours of rest before his next shift - he was about to yank the hateful plant from its moorings when the door opened and a strong hand pulled him inside and closed the door. 

"Close your eyes, John."

"No. You're -"

"Not dead."

"Yes. Yes, you are. Dead. I saw you. I buried you in the ground - six feet under - it's not you. Not -" Rough, dry lips clashed with his, quieting his words.

"Before you say anything else. I had to - you weren't safe, none of you were safe, and it was my fault. No - don't open your eyes yet. I need you to understand, it doesn't matter how I did it - it matters why - I did it to save Mrs. Hudson and Graham, but mostly, John - I did it for you, okay, I did it for myself, too, because if something happened to you, and I could have prevented it - and I failed to - I - couldn't go on." 

John kept his eyes closed, but used his hands to touch the man who stood in front of him, one hand grabbed a thin wrist and felt the strong pulse under his fingers. "Too thin," he sighed, while the other found his shoulder, and slowly moved up his neck until he rested his hand against his jaw, even sharper than he remembered, but it was him, it could only be him. "Sherlock." He moved his hand to his plush lips and shivered as Sherlock kissed his fingers one by one, until John felt himself sliding to the floor, but Sherlock eased his way down and cradled him in his arms.

"I'm so very sorry, John. I never intended it to take so long - I wanted to write you - I wanted to let you know - but I didn't track down the last one until two days ago, you weren't safe until then, it wasn't safe for me to come home..." he stroked John's face, as if he were the Holy Grail. "Open your eyes, John. I need to see your eyes, I need to know you forgive me - I need to know if you -"

John shook his head, clamping his eyes tightly shut. "No. This isn't real. You can't be real - you wouldn't have - he wouldn't have left me behind, I could have helped, I could have -" his words came to a halt as Sherlock pressed a kiss to his forehead. They were his lips against his skin, his arms around him - John turned his face into the man's shirt and took a breath in - it was his scent - he must have taken a shower - his posh lavender soap, the shampoo he only got from that one place - but he could also sense pain, his breathing was all wrong - broken rib, or was it ribs? John slid his hand under the man's shirt and trembled as he felt bandage after bandage, and then Sherlock - yes, all right - it had to be him - drew in a ragged breath and John opened his eyes.

"Damn it. What -"

"John - please?"

"What did they do to you?"

"Doesn't matter." Sherlock whispered as he held John's fingers to his lips again.

John rolled his eyes and crawled out of Sherlock's lap, and finally looked into his friend's eyes. "What hurts?"

"I think the question should be, 'what doesn't hurt?' " Sherlock groaned as he tried to stand.

"Stop. Let me help you - please? What doesn't hurt?" John asked quietly.

"My lips and my hair - everything else -" 

"Idiot." John sat down again and took Sherlock into his arms carefully, trying not to move too much. It was then that he looked up and saw the rest of the decorations. Sherlock had put up a tree, strung the white fairy lights - the box of ornaments waited in his chair - he had remembered that John hated putting on the lights, he had always found it a tedious chore, but he loved hanging the ornaments. The mantlepiece was decorated in garland, the scent of pine mixing with the fire that roared in the fireplace was nearly enough to undo him completely. It was only when Sherlock laid a trembling, bandaged hand over John's chest that the tears started to flow.

He looked down and met Sherlock's exhausted eyes, he was trying so hard not to fall asleep, the beautiful eyes he never thought to see again were still beautiful, but they looked uncertain, a bit scared. John leaned down closer and kissed him, then whispered, "of course, I forgive you. Rest now, love." He stroked Sherlock's tangled mess of hair and watched his eyes slowly close and his hand eventually dropped from his chest as he relaxed into a deep sleep finally. John pressed one more kiss to Sherlock's lips and mumbled. "I love you, so very much, my heart," and soon his chin dropped and he too was out cold.

Mrs. Hudson found them there, the following morning, as she came to bring John his tea. She had been at her sister's, returning only ten minutes before, and nearly dropped the tray as she saw Sherlock gently stroking John's face.

"Sher-"

Sherlock put a finger to his lips and shook his head. "Uhm, Happy Boxing Day, Mrs. H? Think we'll need two cups from now on?"


End file.
